As Mother's Do
by Eva-AngelK
Summary: Lyanna Stark is dead. And she waits, and waits, and waits; until she doesn't.


**As Mothers Do.**

* * *

Lyanna is the name you were born to. Stark the family you belonged with. _Dead is what you are_.

Those are facts.

The blood splattered on the white dress that even in death you are made to wear, proves it.

Sitting in the middle of nowhere, in a small clear of golden trees, soft golden grass and a shallow river to the side; the only difference is the sky, all white and endless. _You wait_.

You fought it at first; as you did everything else in life. No matter what the gods may want from you, you always fought, all teeth and nails and broken bones. You yelled at the sky, jumped to the river and tried to drown; cried to the trees and mourned at the floor.

Always ended up at the same place. _Sitting under the same tree, by the same river with the same endless white sky_.

This is the punishment made for you.

For the blood of your sins.

It seems ironic how well it fits.

You always hated irony.

With time, acceptance came, to this truth, this place, this fate. For time is not an issue anymore, it stops and goes. Flows and drops. For you. It soothes your pain and your aches. It changes for no one and everyone. Time now goes between your fingers, never ending.

Your first and only visitor is Death. Or what it told you it was. It spoke from the gods, for itself; it does as they say and it does as it pleases.

You asked of it many questions and it answered almost none.

(Am I dead? **Yes**. Is this Hell? **No.** What am I doing here? **Waiting**. For what? **A lost soul**. Am I ever going to see my family again? **Yes**. Is _He_ coming for me? **Yes.** )

As Death passes by, it likes to lower its head towards you and when it's feeling cheeky it even vows low and knightly. It always calls you _Queen_. You used to hiss at it, harsh vulgar words of anger and sorrow (Once, you cried at it, hysterical and lost " **One cannot change what one was born to.** " you crumbled to the ground and screamed).

You never felt like one. A queen. You do not think you ever will.

" **Feelings and facts are not the same**." it says shrugging its wide shoulders. " **What it is, will always be.** "

Today it sits beside you in the dying grass. Time stops and Death turns to you with the void of its eye sockets.

" **Someone will come meet you today.** "

'Why?' you are not against a bit of company but you like to be contrary to Death, sometimes it makes it laugh.

" **You will know.** "

'Really? What would you like me to do? Entertain them with my witty commentary on how boring being dead is?' you smile at it, and like to think its internally rolling its none existing eyes because it finds you amusing.

" **Whatever the** _ **Queen**_ **may like.** "

'…Who is it?'

" **Someone really important.** "

'Why would anyone important need to meet me?'

" **Only those who are of most importance may ever meet a** _ **Queen**_ **such as yourself.** "

'…Is… Is it…?' trembling, you ask… maybe… maybe is here, maybe _He_ is coming.

" **No.** "

You turn away, and pretend you aren't as broken as you are tired.

" **Your time to meet** _ **Him**_ **is not yet here.** "

'Who will I meet?'

" **Someone who will need your guidance.** "

You rolls your eyes, and snort unladylike. It is funny, you think, _how could anyone need guidance from me?_

'I'm not the best role model, as you may know.'

" **They shall never need anyone more than you**."

It says as it stands, and grows towards the sky beyond the tree-line.

It walks away. It steps silent.

You wait.

* * *

The first thing you hear is howling.

Loud and powerful.

It makes your knees weak, and your heart soar. Brings you so much peace, it feels like you have died once more.

The first thing you see is the silhouette of a massive wolf on the horizon.

Time pushes the beast towards you. You feel no fear, just immense trust.

Its fur white, like the first snow of a terrible winter, taking life away, no caring about the living or the dead. It looks at you with huge red eyes. For the first time since dying, is like you are home.

'Hello.' Your voice breaks as your hand touches its furry head; it's warm and soft. The beautiful creature vows to you, low and reverent. It offers its cold snout, smells your hand and licks it; it feels like a kiss, humble in its affection, the most precious part of it's pack. A flower it must protect.

The smile on your face feels like it might split you in half from the inside out, charmed entirely by this wild being of strength and truth.

"GHOST!"

Is the second thing you hear. The voice reaches the core of your soul, and it recognizes him immediately; like it belonged inside you all along.

And is like you are back in another time; you are in a silent bright forest, dressed with an uncomfortable armor, holding a forbidden sword, and a laughing shield. A prince walks towards you with his long hair, and dark eyes; your world shattering away.

Because Oh. _Oh._

 _Of course._ Of course, it is him.

You knew him alive; _of course, you'd known him in death_.

The gods hate you after all. So much more than you ever thought.

 _Of course they'd do this to you_.

"I am so sorry m'lady" he says, and his hair is dark like your father's; his nose bends like Brandon's did at the tip. "Ghost didn't mean to scare you."

His robes are all Stark, dark brown and bulky, for the cold. You think him a child but the sword hanging from his belt is bloody, and screams; he is not a child. Not anymore.

He smiles, small but kind. You know those lips, those lips are not Stark; oh no, they are not, nor is the shape of his eyes. There is nothing yours in that.

Your lips are trembling.

To him you are just a stranger and yet. _And yet_.

He is so beautiful. Just as you dreamed he'd be.

"M'lady?"

'He did not.' You respond, trying your hardest to show composure. '…scare me… that is. He is… a beautiful creature.'

The wolf makes a happy whine as it rubs his side over your arm.

"We are lost." He says and you know he is. He should not be here at all and you are angry and terrified.

'How'd you know?' you ask because if you allow anymore you'll cry.

"We are dead, and I know there's somewhere else I'm meant to be."

Your eyes widen.

This is what you must do.

This is your task.

'Walk with me.'

"Excuse me?"

'Walk with me, please.'

You beckon the wolf, (Ghost you try to pin to memory) by the side of its fluffy ear, to follow you.

Your bare feet feel light on the grass, and your heart beats so loud your ears ring; maybe they bleed, you don't know.

It takes a couple of steps but he rushes to walk behind you.

"Where are you taking us?" He sounds uncertain, and you don't blame him.

You know by now that it takes a while until you get back to your waiting tree once you walk far enough from it, but if you're correct, at one point you'll have to stop.

'Where you are meant to be.'

After a long stretch of silence, his voice breaks.

"Who are you?"

You pray, pray so loud you hope the gods get a headache. You hope the gods hate you more from it.

"Have we met before?"

He sounds earnest. Desperate. Hopeful.

You wanna cry.

Suddenly, your whole body is made to stop; you breathe deep, and painful, and know.

Closing your eyes stings and all you can feel is resignation; so you look at Ghost, and scratch behind his ears, smiling sadly. It turns to you with its red eyes, expecting, gorgeous and knowing; you beg, humble, _please protect him_.

Finally, you turn to the boy- _the man_ , with all the courage you can find; the same courage, you muse, you used to lead your horse away from the rode, to run - _and run and run and run and run-_ to a dessert, never to see snow again.

If this is to be the only chance you'll get to look at his face, the beautiful perfect face of your boy, _of your son_ , you will take it.

"Yes."

His eyes widen as your hand, small and pale beside his long handsome face, touches his cheek. And _oh gods_ , his eyes are not grey, not as they looked at first, _not as they should_ , they aren't, she'd know those eyes anywhere, so dark, almost black, almost grey, but they are not. This is their boy. Their son. Your son.

"Do not cry." He says soft, as if you're torn open, exposed, raw and spilling at the seams, and you need protection. And you are, you are but it doesn't matter; because he already ripped you apart once and you'd do it again; you'd do it a thousand times, forever, even if you didn't have to.

 _Oh, he is so beautiful_ , the most beautiful being you have ever seen. And you made him; he is yours, he is your child and _you love him;_ you love him so much your chest is cracking open from it.

'I will cry, I will cry all I want! It is my right, nobody can take it from me.' You tenderly rub your thumb over his cheek.

"I do not know… I…"

'You aren't meant to be here at all.' You say softly but surely. ' _You are not dead_.'

The grass under your feet burns as Death walks towards you with its wide dark robes trailing behind it. 'You have to go back.'

He tries to look back at the oppressive presence behind, but you hold his face towards you with both of yours.

'You keep walking, and do not look back. You keep walking straight.'

You can see it, at the back of your mind, when you walked here for the first time, so long ago.

'Follow the river, and when you see a wall of golden trees, you cut them open with that sword on your belt, you cut them open and run! Until you can't breathe and can't think. You run and… You. Do. Not. Look. Back."

Ghost is switching between whining at you and growling at Death standing behind, waiting and unmoving.

You go to your tiptoes, and gather your son to you. Memorizing the shape of him, the way he sounds as he breathes, and the softness of his black hair touching your cheek. You hold him wholeheartedly, protectively, as mothers should.

"Do not look back, my heart. Not even once."

He holds on tight to the back of your dress, trembling, like a child after a scary dream.

You smile as you desperately hold in the anguish and regret. You are a mother. **You are**. And of all the things you wanted to be in life, ironically, this, right here, is the one thing that finally brought you joy.

It is true, what everyone used to say; being a mother is as beautiful as is heartbreaking.

The hole in your soul suddenly fills with the defying sound of your son's low sobbing. The withered crown of roses on your head blooms bright and heavy, blue, white and frozen; it grows and grows, and settles all over your head. Paints you beautiful again. Paints you a queen.

'I am so glad it was you.' Letting go of him hurts too much, but you keep smiling regardless, as brightly and hopeful as you can; gathering strength to lower his face towards yours and leave a kiss to his temple in final farewell.

Ghost licks your fingers one last time; _I promise_ it tells you and takes off with a thunderous howl, with heavy and strong legs, like a King letting it's Kingdom know it's coming.

Your son rushes to follow.

You stay still, your back to his retreating one.

He stops.

You smile soft, shattered and so painfully full you are choking.

Death patiently stands beside you, and brings its soothing bony hand to your shaking shoulder.

 _You are the only good thing I ever did._

"Thank you." He says, voice solemn and grave; there is no melody in it, not like _His_ voice at all, but you laugh desperately nonetheless, trying to hold in your sobs. He sounds just like _him. L_ ike a fairy tale Prince; like a righteous King. He sounds like his father. And both of them are yours.

'Is what _**mothers**_ do.'

He runs and your knees finally fail. There is no sound but the fading steps, and your harsh pitiful sobbing.

Time cannot sooth you nor does it try.

Words finally come out of you, after a long time; so long, it feels the world beneath you has started all over again: 'That was my test, wasn't it? If I could let him go.'

" **And you passed.** "

Death turns from you, and the trees are no longer gold but the dark brown of winter. The floor is now remade with snow.

 _Our son is beautiful,_ you think loud, and for the first time it feels like someone heard you.

Looking back towards the way your boy went brings back the tears, and they roll from your cheeks turning to red drops on the ground.

For the first time since you died, you feel whole.

Your name is Lyanna Stark, of Winterfell. And you are dead.

Time is your friend, and Death calls you _Queen_.

You are mother to a Prince. A prince promised by song. A song so beautiful it'll make the world cry. Made of Fire. Made of Ice. Your son. Your blue rose.

Like the Crown of Blue Winter roses blooming proudly over your head.

You are the Queen of love and Beauty.

Fierce and wolf blooded.

The gods hate you, and you hate them back just as much.

So you wait, until the end of the world, for Dragons to come and find you once more.

* * *

ASoIaF does not belong to me, it's © GRRM


End file.
